Bogeyman
by llimbus
Summary: Three summer days became the trigger for Barty Crouch Jr. An alternative - MuggleAU - story about the relationship between father and son Crouch. (Written for House Cup Competition.)


A small disclaimer; I do not own anything.

Warnings: sexual themes (het), but not explicit whatsoever, and murder (though not very described)

Written for House Cup Competition by Cheeky Slytherin Lass, round 1.

Prompt: the following quote by Stephen King

* * *

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside of us, and sometimes they win." — Stephen King

. . . .

"Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live" — Oscar Wilde

* * *

Bogeyman

— just sitting there?" Viola's friend asked with a whisper.

You heard her perfectly well, even though she was right — you sat several feet away from the two girls who played at Viola's swing-set; just looked at them having fun.

"Because I told him to wait. I'm playing with you now, aren't I?" Viola answered in her usual high, slightly throaty, voice. She didn't even look at you. Her dress — the same model as she always wore — fluttered around her knees, as did her curls around her shoulders. You stared almost bemused at the sun-gold glittering in her hair. "I much rather play with you," Viola assured her friend. "He can wait. He's like my puppy."

Viola's friend glanced at you, and now in hindsight, you wonder if she thought something was wrong with you or with Viola. Either way this friend smiled and laughed again in no time.

You are not sure how long you sat there — as the shadows grew long and the air got that crisp smell of evening — before it was time for Viola's friend to go home. Her father picked her up in an expensive car, an expensive suit and with an expensive wife.

You stayed at your spot until the thunderous sound of the posh car had vanished and Viola had given you a permissive nod.

"I'm bored of the swings," she said. "Can't we watch telly at your house?"

"I'll have to ask father," you said.

"Is he home, then?"

Maybe she understood things better than you did.

"I think so."

"Come." Viola rose from her swing. "We'll check if his car is in the garage."

So you walked across the street, blissfully unaware of what was waiting for you in the garage. Viola strolled right next to you with thin lips marked by a grin.

"I don't have a key," you said when both of you looked up at the two-door garage.

"We'll just look through the window, then." Viola stomped away in a flowerbed. You were happy that father didn't care about such ridiculous thing as flowers and followed her close behind.

The glass was cold against you nose. Father's both cars were in there, so was father, and someone else.

"Is that your nanny?" Viola asked.

"Yes."

Miss Brown laid bend over the workbench that father never used. Her skirt was pulled up around her hips and her legs were parted. Father was pressed against her and your cheeks got flushed, but you couldn't understand why.

Viola giggled beside you, though when you looked at her you saw that she was disgusted.

"I think I'll go home," she said and you watched her go away with the answers.

.

Gorgeous Miss Brown told you to go outside, and that you did — anything to please Miss Brown, silly boy with a body that throbbed.

It was just another light blue summer day. You sat down by the kerb — ready to wait for Viola no matter how long it would take.

You heard laughter and suddenly Viola came skipping. "Did you tell your father you saw him?"

"Why would I tell him?"

"Because it was wrong and nasty!"

"My father did something wrong?"

"Yes, you twat! You're not supposed to do that, you know!"

"Do what?"

Viola hesitated — you saw her become stiff — but she leaned close to you and whispered; "Shag another woman when you're married. That's forbidden. You cannot do that."

You weren't quite sure what to say — certainly father hasn't done anything wrong? So you asked; "Shag…?"

"Don't you know what shag is? But you know how babies are made, right? It's the —

2

— same thing. You just do it because it's nice, not because you want to have babies."

You felt both fear and mistrust. "How do you know all this?"

"Because I'm older than you. You know all these things when you're older." Viola gave you a superior look and swept away a curl of hair from her face.

"And it's wrong to… to shag?"

"Yes when you're married! And when you're…" Viola glared at the grove of trees that grew at the end of your street and separated your neighbourhood from another, "… you're shagging lots of blokes."

You had absolutely no idea of what she was talking about.

"There's a whore living on the other side of the trees — we need to stop her. Come here." She pulled you by your shirt and didn't let go of you until you stood in the shadow of one of the trees. "Here's what we'll do; we'll sneak out when it gets dark and write WHORE on their door. That'll teach her."

"So we'll make things right?"

You idiotic boy liked the idea of that. Making things right — just as father would've wanted.

"Yes."

"But I'm not allowed to be out that late."

"Me neither."

"But then how are we — "

"We'll go out anyway, of course, this needs to be done, we cannot have a hussy living that close!"

"But what if father or Miss Brown see me?"

"Do you really think your father will notice you going out? He's probably not home anyway! I know my father won't be — they _need _to work. I don't think Miss Brown will notice you either, why would she? She's just glad she's finally put you to bed that she won't think about you until the morning. Don't forget to put on dark clothes."

.

You sneaked between the trees with Viola several steps ahead of you. She made you carry the can of red paint and it was heavy.

"They live right here," Viola turned around and whispered. "You'll write and I'll look out so we don't get caught."

You stood at the edge of the grove, the night was cold and the dew wet your shoes. "But I can't spell whore," you said.

Viola sighed. "Then I'll spell it for you."

The wooden porch creaked beneath your feet even though you tried to tiptoe as quiet as possible. "W, H, O, R, E," Viola spelled out with a wide grin on her face. Her eyes almost seemed to sparkle.

The red colour dribbled down the door. You wondered if you should do the same to father's door, since he was also shagging. Or maybe this girl wasn't a whore — she had done the same thing as father and he never did anything wrong, now did he. Nothing against the rules. You felt strange.

Viola sniggered. "Let's paint it at the garage door as well," she said.

When you had finally done what Viola told you to do you hurried back to the darkness of the trees. But Viola remained by the house.

"Aren't we finished?" you breathed.

"I'm just going to throw this stone first," she said. There was a rather quelled smash and Viola came running — she grabbed hold of your hand and then you were both running through the dead night.

.

You woke up the next morning with black-blue skin underneath your eyes. You walked down the stairs and — lo and behold — saw both father and mum eating breakfast together.

"Good morning father," you said, you eager little bastard.

Father did not look up from his newspaper when he answered; "Good morning, Bartemius. Comb your hair."

"Yes father."

"Would you like some toast, young Barty?" Miss Winkle asked.

"Yes, please."

"They're finished rebuilding the Bradshaw house down the street," father said to no one in particular.

"Oh?" Miss Winkle said.

"Yes, I saw it when I drove home yesterday. It looks absolutely ghastly. I cannot understand how they got —

3

— permission to build that, that horrible looking house. It clash with the rest of the neighbourhood, they have ruined the whole atmosphere of the street with that… atrocious building!"

You looked at him, and surely with big, round eyes and a mouth wide open.

"But I cannot deal with that sort of things now; I have important work to do." Father rose from the table. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I'll see you all later tonight. Stew for dinner, Miss Winkle?"

"Of course, sir."

And then father was gone.

"I'll go out, mum," you said. You had things to take care for. Just like with that hussy girl — she had done something wrong and got punished. Now the Bradshaw family had done something wrong and had made father upset. You had to do it, because father had other important things to do.

Mum simply nodded.

You bumped into Viola on your way down the street.

"What are you going?" she asked — ribbon in her hair and her face in a grin.

"I'm going to look at the Bradshaw house."

"Why?"

"It's breaking the rules. They are breaking the rules."

"Which rules?"

"They shouldn't be allowed to build such houses. They are ghastly and atrocious."

Viola looked as if she wanted to burst out in a loud laughter. "Those things aren't against the rules!"

"Yes they are."

"You are mad."

That didn't stop you. You stared at the horrible house for a long time and then you just knew what needed to be done — you couldn't have that sort of house in the neighbourhood. You were going to take care of it.

Viola waited for you by the driveway when you came back. "Do you want to look at the hussy's house?" she asked.

"Yes."

It was quiet, peaceful and cool among the trees. You followed Viola like a puppy when she stepped out on the dead-end-street.

A man and a woman were in the middle of trying to wash the paint away.

"Do they look ashamed to you?" Viola asked.

You nodded.

"Good."

The red paint almost glowed before your eyes. "That thing that father and Miss Brown did, was it wrong?"

"Yes!" Viola gave her work one last smile before you started walking back. "You know, that needs to be stopped as well. They cannot do that. Your father already has a wife. And Miss Brown is too a hussy, a whore – shagging a married man!"

"But," you said, near shock. "But what if father marries her isn't it right then?"

"No! You are mad! You cannot be married to two women at once! That's forbidden."

.

You managed to set a whole room on fire with just three matches. The Bradshaw family had left a window open and you dropped the matches inside. You watched as the fire crawled across the carpeted floor and climbed up the curtains and walls.

Then, you ran home. You changed to pyjamas and waited for father to wake up and see your glorious work.

The sound of the wall-to-wall-carpet catching fire rang in your ears and you felt very pleased with yourself. It didn't take that long before sirens blasted through the purple night. The cacophony of fire trucks, police cars and ambulances made father woke up within seconds.

"What's that noise?" father snarled. He even looked respectable in his dressing gown.

"I think there's a fire somewhere," you said as you tiptoed out of your room.

Father sighed. "Surely some slob who's forgotten to put out his cigarette."

You joined the rest of the neighbours out on the street.

"The whole Bradshaw house is on fire…" father said and snorted. "They shouldn't have built that house. Some construction failure, I bet, made by a criminal moonlighter. Well, make your bed and sleep in it."

Your stomach bubbled — it was your work. You had solved one father's problems, all by yourself. Good job, you stupid little boy.

.

When you woke up the next morning, after the best night's rest you've ever had, you had the answer. It was simple, really, if father couldn't marry Miss Brown — you would. Miss Brown liked you very much and you were certain that she would be thankful for you solving her problems, for you to penitence her and father's slip.

And father would be so pleased with you.

"Miss Brown," you said, "how do you propose to someone?"

Miss Brown smiled brightly. "Well, you have an engagement ring and then you go down on one knee and tell the love of your life how much she means to you. Did that answer your question?"

"Yes, Miss Brown, thank you."

"You are welcome, sweetheart." Miss Brown always made your cheeks burn.

You ran through the still house. Mum was in what father called "her little hobby-room" and Miss Winkle was in the laundry room.

Mum's jewellery box stood on a chest of drawers. You picked out the ring which you thought Miss Brown would like the most — one in gold with a red diamond. You then went out to pick her the most beautiful flower you could find.

The day was grey, but you managed to find a large burgundy flower with a long stem.

"Miss Brown!" you shouted.

"Yes?"

"I have something I wanted to ask you."

Miss Brown was in the middle of planning a small trip for you and the boys next door — you never really liked them — when you came rushed through the door.

"Do you want to marry me?" You fumbled with the ring and went down on two knees instead of one. The flower laid forgotten on the floor.

Miss Brown smiled down at innocent little you. "Aren't you sweet, Barty. But you don't want to marry me! I'm so much older."

"Yes, I do want to marry you. I have to marry you. We'll have to fix yours and father's problem."

"What sort of problem?" She still smiled, though perhaps not as brightly.

"You did something wrong, but we can make it right. You and father shagged and that's against the rules. Father cannot marry you, because he's already married to mum, but I can marry you!"

Miss Brown understood that it was no longer a game. You looked at her; her eyes had become frosty, dead.

"You cannot tell this to anyone," she hissed. "I have done nothing wrong. Nothing. This is your father's problem, not mine. You cannot do this! No one was supposed to see that! Your father was sure that no one was going to see it. He made sure of that before he… before he did… that." Miss Brown snivelled. "Don't you understand? This is not a game!"

"I know it's not a game. You must — "

"No, I do not have to do anything, you silly boy! You idiotic little boy! I can't bear to look at you!"

Miss Brown ran up the stairs.

.

The day went by and you figured it out. You had finally found a way to solve this mess. There was no other way — Miss Brown had to die. It was all her fault. She had ruined both your and father's life. She was a whore, a hussy that had to be stopped.

Your eyes were black by then. You waited outside her room with one of the knives Miss Winkle used to slice meat.

The wait was long and exhausting. It was past dinnertime when the door at last swung open. Your mind was blank when you pressed the knife into the flesh of Miss Brown's slender back which made her fall.

She probably screamed. She probably tried to defend herself. She probably got a lot of stab wounds and probably lost a lot of blood within seconds. But you wouldn't remember that twenty years later. No, you would remember something completely else.

When your work was done mum came running. She screamed, almost hysterical, but when she looked at you she too knew. She knew what you had done, what you had to do.

Mum groaned. When the front door slammed closed she screamed with a hoarse voice; "Barty! Barty you've got to come up here!"

Father muttered something.

"Right now, Barty! Oh please, Barty. Something terrible has happened!"

"Fine, fine, I'm coming."

Father looked at the body of Miss Brown for a long time while mum hold her breath. Then, his eyes were black.

Father probably bawled. You probably tried to defend yourself. But suddenly father just stopped and with a calm face he said; "Come, we'll go downstairs."

"We have to do something," mum said, imploding.

"Of course." Father picked up the phone. "Call the police."

"No! He's your son! We've got to help him! Save him!"

Father looked at you with dead eyes — had they always been dead? He said; "I don't have a son."

You didn't understand at the time, but you would remember it. It would ring in your ears for a week. It would wake you up at nights for months. You would remember it for twenty years.

"Is this the police? I would like to report —


End file.
